


Badger and Finch

by lookninjas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twice now, John Reese has been rescued by a remarkably daring greenfinch with impeccable timing.  If he ever gets the chance, he’ll have to return the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Badger and Finch

Part of him wants to go back for her.

Of course, there's almost certainly nothing to go back for.

The last John had seen of Kara was her sprawled on the dirt, wand out of reach, surrounded by enemies. He'd taken a step towards her, just one, and then a tree less than a meter from him had exploded in a ball of flames, and he'd been forced to turn away. Then it was curses, flashes of light, a sharp pain along his ribs like he'd been slashed by a sword. He'd managed to break free, but only just, and all he could do at that point was to keep running. 

To leave Kara behind.

Of course, she'd tried to kill him. Had very nearly succeeded. It didn't matter what Snow had told her John was guilty of, what he'd ordered her to do -- he'd given John the same orders and at the very last minute, John hadn't been able to betray her. Kara, for her part, had turned and smiled and tried to kill him, without a thought to their time together or to the work they'd done, without the shadow of a doubt or a moment's hesitation. She hadn't even tried to soften the blow, to take him alive. She was going to kill him, and leave him behind, on nothing but Snow's word.

But there's a part of John, a rather large part at that, that still wants to go back for her. 

The trouble, of course, is that his legs won't cooperate. 

It's the blood, he thinks, all that blood. _Sectumsemptra_ is a curse he rarely sees used, but it's always nasty to deal with, and whoever'd cast it got him right along the line of his ribs. Then there was the exploding tree, and a few more blasting curses that he got in the way of, too, and he's singed and scraped and probably has some lovely shrapnel embedded in his right side, his shoulder and leg, and his ears are ringing -- 

But it's the bleeding, really, that's the problem. All that blood.

He stumbles, staggers, reaches out to a tree to catch himself. A nearby bird startles into flight, flutters briefly in the air before settling on the ground in front of him. It's a tame-looking thing, out of place here in the middle of a forest in the middle of Albania, all brownish-green feathers and bright black eyes. A finch, he thinks. It must be some kind of a finch.

There's something familiar about the thought, but he can't place it.

"Better get out of here," he mumbles, half to the finch, half to himself. "They'll be looking --"

But his legs aren't working; they fold underneath him, his hand sliding slowly down the bark of the tree as he settles to the ground.

The finch hops a little closer. It seems to be favoring one leg.

"It's this book, you see," he explains. Funny, most birds cock their head to the sides, as if listening. This one has its neck stiff and straight. Perhaps it simply doesn't care. "Mark wanted us to get it for him. Said it was important. Serious dark magic." He actually laughs at that; he isn't sure why. Just that it seems funny now -- all their furious speculation as to what the book could be, what secrets it could contain, dark spells or perhaps a curse, some strange enchantments, and in the end all it was was some Muggle paperback, battered and worn. 

Somehow, John's pretty sure that Kara would still have looted it from his corpse if she'd gotten the chance. 

"It's not the book," he tells the bird, and the finch hops a little closer. "It's me. It's just me." He sighs, letting himself sprawl. He's exhausted, cold. It's always cold in Albania this time of year. "It's funny, you know," he adds. "Always thought I'd die alone. And yet, here you are."

As his eyes slip closed, he thinks he hears someone say, "Yes," and "Here I am."

 

*

 

According to Leon, he'd been perfectly happy in New York City. But then his dad had moved to London and dragged the whole family with him, and he'd been miserable ever since.

Why that meant that Leon had to make everyone around him miserable too wasn't entirely clear, but apparently, that was his goal. 

He was good at it, at least. By the end of his first week, Leon had successfully antagonized every single Slytherin in the school, most of the Ravenclaws, at least half the Gryffindors, and a shockingly large number of Hufflepuffs. By Christmas break, the only people who were even trying to tolerate him were John and a second-year Hufflepuff named Lionel, who bore a striking resemblance to a bulldog and who cheerfully admitted that the only reason he even bothered with Leon was that he made Lionel look pleasant by comparison. But it wasn't exactly a close friendship.

Leon didn't really have any of those. 

Which meant that when Amycus Carrow finally got fed up and challenged Leon to a duel, there was absolutely no one in the entire school who was willing to stand as Leon's second, or at least no one that Leon trusted. No one at all, except John.

And the only reason he said yes was that he never actually expected the duel to happen.

The truth was, he assumed that Leon would suddenly come down ill and have to call the whole thing off; or that they'd arrive in the trophy room to find Apollyon Pringle or Professor Slughorn or maybe even Dumbledore himself waiting to haul them off to detention for being out after curfew; or that at worst Leon would make it to the trophy room, see his opponent waiting for him there, and then faint dead away and have to be carried to the hospital wing. He never really expected to see Leon -- his hand shaking so badly he could barely hold his wand but his face set and serious and his legs somehow holding him upright -- facing down a fifth-year Slytherin in the trophy room at the dead of night. 

If he had expected it, though, he probably would have also expected what came next -- the count to three, Leon botching his spell, and Carrow knocking Leon flat with a jet of red light from his wand. After all, Leon was a first year and Carrow was a fifth; it wasn't as though the two were evenly matched.

But the part where Carrow made ropes appear out of nowhere, tying an unconscious Leon up -- the part where Carrow let out that wheezy giggle and advanced on Leon, wand in hand -- the part where Carrow's sister and second, Alecto, let out a laugh just like her brother's and turned her own wand on John and said, "Run along now, little Badger, before you see something you shouldn't --"

_That_ he wasn't expecting. 

He wasn't entirely expecting that his first instinct would be to drop his wand and punch Alecto Carrow in the face, either. 

Lucky for him, neither was she.

 

*

 

He's warm. 

There's light, too -- a flickering glow John can see through his closed eyelids, like candlelight or a fire in the hearth. There's a soft mattress under him, heavy blankets on top. His ears are still ringing faintly, his shoulder still feels a bit charred, and the long slash along his ribs burns dully, but it's better than it was. 

And he's warm. 

It would probably be more comforting if he actually understood how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembers is the roughness of tree bark under his hands, cold, dizziness, blood...

A little bird, favoring one leg, looking at him with bright, intelligent eyes.

"Finch," he remembers. "It was a finch."

"Ah," a man says -- soft voice, somehow familiar. "I see you're awake, Mr. Reese."

"Am I?" John asks. But he opens his eyes, tries to sit up even, although he doesn't get very far. He's not as weak as he was; he doesn't hurt as badly, but he's not exactly at full strength, either, and it's easy for the other man in the room (who currently appears to have assumed the shape of a greenish-brown blob) to press him back down into the softness of the mattress, strong hands careful on his uninjured shoulder, gently pushing at the center of his chest. 

John thinks about fighting for exactly one second before deciding his energy is better spent attempting to focus his eyes. 

After a few moments' struggle, the brown blob bending over him resolves into the figure of a man, mousy brown hair sticking straight up off his high forehead, round wire-rimmed glasses hiding his eyes, a slightly beaky nose. He leans in close to examine John's shoulder and John gets a good view of the man's robes, a rather distinctive green and brown plaid, expensive-looking. Then the man moves on to the long slash along John's ribcage, and John grits his teeth against a flare of pain and turns to examine the rest of the room in an attempt to distract himself. 

He sees -- books, mostly. Shelves and shelves of books. There's a desk cleared off in the middle of the room, a few stray objects littering the surface -- a Sneakoscope, perhaps, a glass ball that may or may not be a Remembrall, a tangled flesh-colored mass that he thinks might turn out to be a pair of Extendable Ears. A scale, a mortar and pestle, a few jars and bottles. A Foe-Glass on the wall, the shadows within a bit nearer than John would ordinarily prefer, but he supposes there's no help for that now. There's a fire in the hearth, a cauldron hanging over it; John can hear the contents bubbling. Whatever his host is making, it smells faintly of liniment and no doubt tastes terrible. It's probably meant for John. 

"You saved my life," he murmurs, and stifles a hiss as the man's fingers press in against his wound. "Why?"

"I suppose," the man says, pushing himself upright again, "it seemed a thing worth saving." He regards John from behind his spectacles -- his eyes are large and blue, not small and black, but still he seems familiar somehow. "And you can call me Harold."

When Harold turns away, he holds his head high and unnaturally stiff, and there's a pronounced hitch in his gait as he makes his way to the cauldron.

_Finch_ , John thinks, and lets his eyes drift closed again.

 

*

 

"Apologize!"

He would have, actually, if he thought he could have spoken. If he could have breathed, he might have at least given some kind of wheeze. But his head was splitting and his bones were on fire and every inch of him was taken over by an agony so intense he couldn't even cry out. His eyes watered; he tasted copper in the back of his mouth.

He couldn't breathe.

So how Carrow expected him to apologize was something of a mystery. 

"You will apologize," Carrow said, and John's limp body rolled to face him, his eyes wide open no matter how hard he tried to close them, how little he wanted to see what was coming, the look on Amycus Carrow's face as he cast that spell, that dreadful -- "I will _make_ you apologize! _Cru_ \--"

A flutter of brown-green wings and a howl of furious pain, and for a moment John thought he was seeing things. 

But as the agony ebbed away by degrees, John could think a little again, could think well enough to realize that he wasn't hallucinating. Amycus Carrow really was being attacked by a greenfinch.

By the looks of it, the finch was winning.

Alecto, one hand still clutching at her bloody nose, shrieked and pointed her wand at her own brother. " _Stupefy_!" she called out, the word apparently just intelligible enough for the spell to function, sending another of those jets of red light from the tip of her wand.

Wings flapping madly, the bird soared towards the ceiling, dodging the curse. Amycus, clutching at his face, did not. His sister's spell hit him and he crumpled to the ground.

Alecto shrieked again. "No! Amycus! _Stupefy_! _Stupefy_!"

More jets of red light, smashing glass cases and knocking plaques off the wall; the bird managed to dodge every curse she sent its way, but there were some near misses, and John felt a tremble of fear for his winged rescuer. But he could hear footsteps in the distance; if the greenfinch could just hold on a little longer...

"This is your fault," Alecto snarled, and turned to face John again. He wanted to push himself up, he really did; he couldn't exactly run away like this, but there just wasn't enough strength in him left to stand. The pain that had all but consumed him was fading into a sort of limp exhaustion; it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. "This is all your --"

" _Don't_ ," someone said, and it wasn't Leon, and it wasn't Amycus Carrow, so who it was John couldn't have said at all. Unless, of course -- "Don't you touch him. Don't you dare."

The pounding feet were nearly at the door now. 

"Where did you come from?" Alecto asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

Professor McGonagall could turn into a cat; she'd done it as a class demonstration once, and John had been suitably impressed. But it stood to reason that if she could transform, other wizards could, too. And it didn't have to be cats, either. They could be other animals, like wolves or bears or badgers, or maybe even birds --

"Drop your wand, Alecto," the finch said. "I mean it."

The last thing John remembered before his eyes slipped shut was Alecto's wand hitting the floor.

 

*

 

It turns out that the liniment-smelling substance in the cauldron is, in fact, liniment. John wakes twice to find Harold Finch carefully dabbing it on the burn on John's shoulder, smearing it along the line of the cut that stretches from his ribcage halfway to the jut of his hip. It stings when applied, but by the time Finch has gotten fresh dressings on the wounds, the pain has already faded drastically. 

He fades in and out; Finch is always there. The times that John is awake for more than a few minutes, Finch gives him sips of water, a little beef broth, once a very small quantity of weak, milky tea.. There's a trip to the toilet as well, that time; Finch's hitching gait slowed even further by the need to hold John up for the entirety of the walk to and from the little room, and the only thing stopping John from feeling guilty is that he's simply too exhausted for the emotion, so he doesn't bother with it.

He'll feel it later, maybe. If there's time.

Finally, John wakes up and feels, if not exactly clear-headed, at least a bit more like himself. He's weary and weak, but the pain is nearly gone, and although he won't be out chasing potential Death Eaters again anytime soon, he's fairly certain he can at least sit up without assistance. So he tries it, pushing himself up slowly so he can rest against the headboard. 

Finch doesn't race over to help him, which is a bit of a surprise. In fact, John's not entirely sure where Finch is for a moment or two -- he's not at the cauldron by the fire, nor is he working at the table, or coming in from the other room. John's already panicking a little by the time he turns his head and sees Finch in a chair very near to the bed, sagging limply forward. It almost looks as though -- But then Finch lets out a soft snore, and John relaxes back against the headboard. Asleep, then, and not dead.

The book that John had been sent to recover is still open in Finch's hands. John reaches out -- carefully, carefully -- and takes it from him. 

_The Ghost in the Machine_ , it's called. 

Inside the cover, someone has written the initials _N.I._

 

*

 

"She didn't see me transform, Nathan." 

John wasn't sure where he was, exactly. And he was having a hard time remembering where he'd heard the name _Nathan_ before. But that voice, at least, was familiar. That voice, he was pretty sure, had saved his life.

"And I doubt she'll put the pieces together any time soon. Alecto never was known for very much wit. Anyway, what other choice did I have? Amycus had already --"

"You shouldn't have been in the room in the first place," someone else replied. Deep voice, familiar. John chanced opening his eyes a sliver and saw a face he thought he recognized. Good-looking, blond -- a Prefect, if John remembered right. And Nathan... Ingram. It had to be. But why was he -- "Slugworth and I were right behind you; you should have waited for us, we could have --"

" _Cruciatus_ , Nathan!" 

There was a certain contained fury in that voice that John found intriguing, so he peeked again, trying to see who Nathan was arguing with. But the other boy was sitting with his back to John's cot, and all John could really see was black robes and a head of light brown hair that stuck straight up. John shifted a bit, trying to get a better look, and the other boy reached back without turning around, laid a hand on John's arm. It was a light touch, barely perceptible. 

John closed his eyes again.

"An Unforgivable curse, used on a first-year student. A child. And you seriously think I should have waited? I should have --" 

"All right, but you could have transformed before you threw yourself in front of an Unforgivable," Nathan replied. "At least then you would have had your wand from the start; you would've been able to --"

"I _couldn't_ \--"

The brown-haired boy's hand tightened reflexively on John's arm; it was peculiarly reassuring. 

"Easy there, Harold," Nathan said, softly, and the boy -- Harold -- let go of John's arm. John wished he hadn't, but he didn't know how to say so without letting the other boys know that he was awake, and he was learning too much to do that just yet, so he said nothing, continued to feign sleep. 

"I'm sorry," Harold said, his voice a little quieter now. "I -- If you'd seen that boy on the floor, if you'd seen -- Perhaps it wasn't a rational response. But it was all I had at the moment. I couldn't... I needed to make him stop. So I did."

"You did," Nathan said, gently. "I'm not arguing that. I just -- Harold, what you have achieved is... incredible. Astonishing. Absolutely tremendous. And it's also completely illegal. What if you were caught? Slugworth might let it slide, maybe, but if McGonagall saw you? If Dumbledore saw you? You'd be expelled at the very least. And then where would I be? I wouldn't make it a day in this school without you, and we both know it." 

"But you're brilliant," Harold protested. "You don't need --"

Nathan sighed. "It's not about homework," he said. "You're my best friend."

"But you have dozens of --"

"None of them are like you, Harold," Nathan said, firmly. "None of them."

He didn't say anything more for a few moments, and Harold himself remained quiet. 

John, of course, said nothing. It seemed a bad time to interrupt. 

"Besides, it's not just about me. Think of Leon, over there. Think of..."

"John," Harold said. There was something strangely pleasing about the fact that this Harold, whoever he was, knew John's name. "His name's John Reese. Madame Pomfrey told me."

And his hand returned, light as a feather, to John's shoulder.

"Think of John, then. What might have happened to him if you hadn't been there. If you hadn't heard --" There was a pause, and when Nathan spoke again, he'd dropped his voice down to an urgent whisper. "And what about the next time? What if something like this were to happen again, and you weren't here to find out about it in time? To tell me about it in time. What happens then?"

"It's not..." Harold let out a soft, puzzled-sounding laugh. "Nathan, they're being expelled. Both Amycus and Alecto. I mean, the duel alone -- To challenge a first year like that, honestly. Even if they hadn't meant to do any real harm, they would've put one or both boys in the hospital wing. But I doubt anyone else would be so stupid or --"

Then Harold stopped talking. Once again, his grip on John's shoulder tightened.

"Is this about your father?" Harold asked. "All that nonsense about purity of blood, about --"

"You said it yourself," Nathan replied, very grimly. "The Carrows singled Leon Tao out specifically because he was Muggle-born. And they weren't the only ones in on the plan. You heard Lucius Malfoy laughing about it, and Malfoy's a prefect. He should have gone immediately to Slughorn. But he didn't; none of the Slytherins did. If you hadn't been there --"

"Yes, you've said that already," Harold replied. He sounded suddenly absent, as if distracted by something. After a moment, he added, "You're not at all worried that I'll be expelled, are you?"

"What? Harold, of course I --"

"Not that you wouldn't care." Harold continued as though his friend hadn't spoken at all -- almost as though he, Harold, wasn't speaking out loud, but only thinking to himself. "But you don't really think it would happen. McGonagall wouldn't expel a member of her own House just because they were good at Transfiguration and Dumbledore's always been a bit uneven when it comes to enforcing certain rules. So you're not really worried that I'll be expelled, because you don't think it'll happen. You're worried that I'll -- " Harold stopped short, then, and didn't finish. 

There was a long, heavy pause.

Finally, Nathan said, "Being expelled isn't the worst thing that could happen to you. Suppose Amycus had gotten a lucky shot in, or Alecto, or --"

John remembered how close some of those red jets of light had gotten, how near some of the misses were, and had to fight to suppress a shiver.

Harold seemed remarkably unconcerned. "Really, Nathan, I don't think either of them could have --"

"What about both of them?" Nathan asked, his voice going sharper. He didn't sound angry, though. More scared. "What about _all_ of them, Harold, because if word got around Slytherin house of what you'd done? I don't think any of them would challenge you to a duel; frankly, I don't think any of them would dare. But that wouldn't mean they wouldn't find a way to -- To stop you. From stopping them."

Except _stop_ wasn't the word Nathan meant. Not really. John's breath hitched at the memory of Leon, bound with ropes from Carrow's wand; the curse he'd used, the one Harold had called Unforgivable. Harold had taken care of Amycus and Alecto, but what if there had been more than two? What if it really was all of them, like Nathan said?

Harold stroked soothingly at John's shoulder, but he didn't say anything. It seemed as though he'd finally run out of arguments.

"The world isn't like it used to be," Nathan said, finally. "Or maybe it is, maybe people just aren't hiding what they think anymore. I don't know. I just -- And you _know_ I don't care about blood, or purity, or any of that. I have never cared where you come from. But that doesn't mean that other people don't. And you are a great wizard, Harold. Better than me; better than all of us, probably. And in a just world, that wouldn't matter, but here, right now? I honestly wonder if sometimes it doesn't make it worse."

"So what exactly do you expect me to do, Nathan?" Harold didn't sound angry so much anymore. He did, maybe, sound a little hurt. "Go back to the common room, sit by the fire and pretend that nothing is wrong? You're right; the world is changing. And what happened to Leon, to _John_ \-- it very well could happen again. And you can't prevent that on your own. You need me, Nathan, and you know it."

"You're right." Nathan's voice was even quieter than before, serious and grave. "I do need you. Which is why I worry so much about you. I'm not asking you to go back to studying and let Malfoy and his friends do what they want. I would never expect you to do that, and more than that I wouldn't want you to. I don't want anyone to get hurt," Nathan said. "But that includes you. I just... I need you to promise me that you'll be more careful."

Hogwarts was full of Muggle-born students. John should know; he was one. He'd heard a few nasty things directed his way, sometimes. From Slytherins, mainly. Not all of them, but some of them. 

He'd never thought it would go beyond words, though. 

Except tonight it had. And from what Nathan was saying, it would happen again. And again. And probably again after that.

"All right, Nathan," Harold said at last; his voice was soft, worried. "I'll be careful."

The thing was, even if Harold didn't get hurt or expelled or worse, he wouldn't be at Hogwarts forever. Another year or two at most, and then he'd be off, making his way in the world, and Hogwarts would still be there. People like the Carrows would still be there.

There would need to be someone like Harold there to stop them.

 

*

 

"I'd be annoyed about you stealing my book while I was sleeping," Finch says, "but I suppose you did almost die trying to get your hands on it."

John glances over at where Finch is sitting in the chair, rubbing at his neck. He doesn't appear particularly put out, but then John supposes he doesn't yet know him well enough to say. 

"If I'd known it was going to be this dull, I wouldn't have gone to the trouble," he says, and closes the book without bothering to mark his page. Honestly, he didn't understand what he was reading anyway. "Some things really aren't worth dying for."

"Hmm." Finch turns away to hide a yawn, and for a moment, it’s like being back at the hospital wing at Hogwarts — the robed back, the light brown hair sticking straight up. But John hasn’t seen Nathan Ingram at all, not since the first time he’d woken up. Only Harold Finch.

There’d been a rumor going around a few months ago that Ingram was in Albania, looking for Bertha Jorkins. His book, at least, was here. So where was he?

Whatever the answer was, John had a feeling it had something to do with the stiffness of Finch’s neck and the hitch of his walk.

"Speaking of dying, that’s twice now you’ve saved my life," John observes, watching Finch for some kind of response. He doesn’t get one, or at least not one that he can see. "What do you think the odds are that I’ll get to return the favor someday?"

"I suppose that depends," Finch says; he takes his glasses off and starts to clean them with the corner of his robes.

"That depends," John repeats. "On what?"

"On you, of course." Finch stands, brushing off his robes. He really is something like a bird, restlessly straightening his sleep-ruffled feathers. "It occurs to me, Mr. Reese, that once you’ve finished healing, you’ll be in need of a new job. I may be looking for some help, if you’re interested."

Nathan Ingram had been legendary among Aurors for his ability to predict the movements of his enemies. He was always in the right place, at the right time. He never explained how he knew, of course, just said, “I suppose a little bird told me.”

And now Ingram’s little bird is offering John a job. And John’s not selfish enough to say no.

He manages a thin sliver of a smile. “Oh, I’m interested,” he says. “I’m definitely interested.”


End file.
